


Loaded Gun

by MissCDiamond (CaliBDiamond)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-15 23:43:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/855326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaliBDiamond/pseuds/MissCDiamond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Myra seems to have lost it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loaded Gun

Adam had walked out with his friends the night she got the phone call about Dean. It was three in the morning when the ringing of her phone startled her out of her booze and cocaine fueled daze, and she paused the game she’d been playing to answer it. She hadn’t heard from Samantha in months; not since she’d last come to visit. She was crying, and immediately Myra knew something was wrong. She half expected the girl to tell her that her older brother had finally overdosed and died, but that wasn’t the case. Michael was fine. He was shouting in the background, sounding more distressed than angry. Myra tried to block out his voice and concentrate on what Sam was telling her.

_Dean’s gone. He flipped his truck on the interstate. The paramedics pronounced him dead on the scene._

A low buzzing hum filled Myra’s skull as Samantha’s words played over and over like a broken record, and she dropped the phone without a word. Her empty stomach twisted into knots at the thought of how her last conversation with Dean had ended with the two of them screaming at each other. He had never approved of her move to New York; it would change her and make her unrecognizable. The boy she’d moved in with was just a less abusive version of Michael. He was just there to feed her drugs and keep a roof over her head. Dean had tried to bribe her into coming back to Louisiana, saying that he’d buy a house the two of them could live in forever, even if the day came where they didn’t love each other anymore.

She’d given him such hell over leaving for college when he did. She’d accused him of abandoning her and screamed that she loved Adam –even though she wasn’t sure if she really did anymore. She wasn’t going to come back to Louisiana just because he wanted her to. He hadn’t come back for her when she begged him to. She’d hung up on him and locked herself in the bathroom with the rest of the weed and coke that Adam had left on the nightstand and cried under the cold spray of the shower until she’d fallen into a comfortable numbness that allowed her to escape her heartache.

And now Dean was dead and she would never get the chance to apologize. She’d never be able to tell him how he’d always been the love of her life, and that she wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of her life with him. She was stuck now. There was no way out of this hell hole she’d fallen into. She would have to stay with Adam and his raunchy band mates in this disgusting apartment littered with drugs and used panties leftover from their sexcapades. Her white knight and her happy ending were no more. This was it. There was no salvation for her.

When she was able to call Samantha back, she spoke in broken sentences and wearily made plans to come down for the funeral. Adam came back home after she’d hung up, demanding that she set out a few lines for him and the boys. Instead of listening to him, the dazed young woman simply picked up her kitten and headed into the bedroom to cry in private, locking her boyfriend out. He didn’t have the balls to break the door down, so she knew she’d be safe for a few hours until Adam ran out of cocaine and patience.  As she lay down on the bed and curled up with Shadow, the brunette found herself unable to cry. Every so often, a choked sound would escape her and tears would flow down her cheeks, but nothing more. She was in shock, even if she didn’t realize it. And she would remain that way until she left for New Orleans the following day.

She hadn’t really packed a bag so much as she’d just thrown a bunch of shit into it and zipped it up. She’d stopped by Rick’s to drop Shadow off, not trusting him in the hands of her boyfriend and his friends. Myra couldn’t even tell the man what was wrong, or why she looked like she was on the verge of a breakdown. She just handed the kitten over and made Rick promise to take care of him. Then she’d turned and left. Myra didn’t have any plans to return to New York. The six-shooter she’d stolen out of Adam’s safe would make sure that she stayed with Dean where she belonged. She would sit through the funeral and wait for everyone to go, and then she would put the barrel in her mouth and spray her brains across the freshly dug grave.

But she was weak, and of course, things didn’t go as planned.

She didn’t speak to her father when she came into the house, walking right past his open office door to head up the stairs to the bedroom she’d vacated only a few years ago. She didn’t have to worry about running into her mother; Elizabeth had run off around the same time she had. It was just Edward and the staff now. The man was busy, but it was clear he’d heard the news. Her bedroom had been fixed up rather nicely, and if she’d had been in the right mind, she might have actually thanked the man for making the maid go through the trouble. But all she did was drop her bag of grungy clothes onto the bed and take out the cocaine she’d smuggled, into the closet with her.

The days of smoking heroin came rushing back to her as she snuffed the stuff straight out of the bag with the hollowed out Bic pen she always had in her pocket. She remembered cramming herself into the farthest corner of the closet and doing her damndest not to set her hanging clothes on fire while trying to keep the tar on the foil and the smell out of her bedroom. She still couldn’t touch barbequed pork because the stench of burning heroin was just too similar. At least cocaine was easier to get away with.

She was riding a pretty decent high when she finally came out and changed her clothes to go see Samantha. The other girl didn’t know she was in town yet, and Myra wanted a chance to talk to her before the funeral. After all, it would be the last chance she had.

She took the same route she’d always taken back when they were kids. She still knew every alley and shortcut like the back of her hand, even if the paths were a bit overgrown now. The familiar smell of the bayou wafted up her nostril, breaking through the lingering bitter scent of the cocaine she’d stuffed up her nasal passages, and reminding her of better times and times she’d love nothing more than to forget. She barely even noticed Michael’s old beat up Cadillac in the driveway as she lurched like a zombie up the gravel walkway and banged a fist weakly on the screen door. Myra nearly jumped out of her skin when Michael appeared, looking about the same as he had the last time they’d seen each other. Perhaps he was a bit thinner and scruffier, but those dark eyes were still just as cold and condescending as always.

He let her in without a word, and followed her into the basement. Samantha wasn’t here, apparently. She had gone out to restock the refrigerator and would probably return in an hour. Taking a seat on a couch that had not been here the last time Myra had set foot in the room, the brunette did her best to ignore the way Michael watched her, pretending not to hear him when he asked about her well being and if New York was as cool as the movies made it seem. Sure, New York was awesome. It was the people and the scene she’d stumbled into that was just about as fucked up as they were here.

Then he offered the foil. _For old time’s sake._ He’d said. Myra wanted to decline. The words were on her tongue. She had been clean off of the stuff for a few years now, only taking snuffs of coke and smoking blunts with Adam and his crew. But as she watched the older man sit back on his ancient bean bag chair and smoke up his own little ball of black tar, she broke. She’d just barely finished inhaling the last of the smoke when Samantha came in. She looked about as well as Myra did, just a lot thinner and a lot more strung out.

The two hugged and talked, though Myra found it hard to concentrate at all as the heroin made its way through her system and thoroughly fucked her head. Maybe mixing cocaine and black tar was a bad idea. Maybe she would go back to her father’s house to sleep and never wake up. Would he bury her next to Dean if she left it in a note? Or would he make sure she was cremated and put up in the crypt with the rest of the Stone clan? When Samantha began talking about how Dean had always called and asked about her, and about how he’d had plans to come up and surprise her in New York, Myra felt the ache in her chest grow far more painful than before, and cried. She cried so hard that her high was lost, and she nearly began vomiting everywhere. Above the sounds of her pained dry heaves, she could hear Sam and Michael arguing about something.

She didn’t care enough to listen. The one person in the world that she thought she’d always be able to count on, regardless of whether or not they were fighting, was to be put into the cold ground in the morning and she was never ever going to see him again. It was when Michael’s hand curled around her arm that the panic got worse, and she actually lashed out at him, striking him across the cheek before booking it out of the room and up the stairs. She fell twice trying to get out of the house, tripping over Samantha’s shoes and eventually crashing through the front door. The memories of the last time she’d been inside that house were swirling in her fogged mind, and she needed to get out before either of the Devereux siblings caught up to her.

She ran as well as she could, passing by curious onlookers and people she thought she recognized from high school. Nobody tried to stop her, and nobody thought to help. It was exactly the same as it had been that day, except there were no bruises and her face was smeared with eyeliner instead of blood. Running to the edge of the main stretch that ran through her part of the neighborhood, Myra stopped to lean against a willow tree and sank until her knees hit the mud. There was no telling how long she sat there, sobbing her heart out while trying to get her breathing and her mutinous stomach under control. It was dark by the time she even thought to go back to her father’s, and she was ready to keel over and die long before she shuffled through the front door.

Declining dinner and whatever company her father thought he was going to provide, she trudged up to her bedroom and locked herself inside, just barely remembering to scribble the note about her preferred resting place should she pass on in her sleep from the drugs.

The Gods did not bless her with the relief Death would bring. She awoke the next morning, groggy and sick, and forced herself to pull on the black dress she’d brought with her. The funeral was in an hour. She needed to make herself look less like a junkie, and more like the best friend Dean had left behind. She packed up her cigarettes and her pistol into her purse, as well as the Captain America figurine she’d brought to put on the casket before it was lowered. Samantha had mentioned that the service would be closed casket. The accident had been too disfiguring for Dean’s family to do otherwise. That was fine with her. She didn’t want to see him lying cold and dead in a satin lined box that would only remain pretty until the body started to decay.

The sun was too bright, and the touch of her father’s hand on her shoulder was so repulsively sympathetic that Myra couldn’t bear to stand near him as she walked to the church. The service was long and horrible, but she wouldn’t remember it later. Her mind was still caught in a fog that she doubted could ever be cleared. She simply remembered sitting in the church pew, then being escorted out to a fancy black car and driven to a cemetery. She waited for everyone else to say their goodbyes, standing back away from her father and Dean’s family until she finally found the guts to walk up and drop Cap on top of the roses everyone else had thrown in.

 _Who is Iron Man without Captain America?_ She wondered to herself as she stared at the glossy wooden top of the casket. _Who am I without you?_

The brunette stood there, still as a statue, while everybody else began to file out. Even when Dean’s mother came up to hug her and tell her how she’d always loved her like a daughter, Myra couldn’t bring herself to respond. Long after the last bit of dirt had been tossed onto the grave, she still stood there, staring blankly at the Earth. All she had to do was wait for the man to leave, and then she could carry on with her plan. She never expected Michael to come back here for her. She never thought she’d actually let him convince her to leave her place, and go back with him to his house. Samantha wasn’t there; she’d had to work after the funeral. They would have the house to themselves until the next morning.

Myra didn’t plan on getting high again, or sleeping with Michael. He was just as horrible as he’d always been, only now she had something to compare it to. He started talking about how Dean had thought they looked good together –a lie Myra didn’t have to try hard to see through- and that he’d wanted to come and visit so they could talk things out. The brunette never mentioned Adam, and she didn’t respond to Michael’s false promises of romance and diamond rings. The man could barely afford to keep his Cadillac running with the drug addiction that he had; how the hell was he going to take care of her the way Dean would have? So, she let him fuck her again and waited for him to leave on a beer run before she started to go through his things. She was going to leave here, and she was going to take all the drugs with her.

If she couldn’t end her life the way she wanted, she would go the coward’s way and OD. But her timing was horrible, and Michael returned far sooner than she’d expected. She had been in the middle of ransacking his dresser when he walked into the room and exploded at her in rage. The beer he’d bought went flying past her head, hitting the wall and spraying her with the cheap bitter froth of Natural Ice. His hands found her hair and ripped several locks straight out of her scalp as his knuckles met the same spots on her face and body that they had so many years ago. His screaming drowned hers out; she was so out of practice after living with Adam for so long. The taste of blood and beer and skin filled the brunette’s mouth and Myra very nearly succumbed and let him beat her to death.

She didn’t remember him storming out of the room to throw things around in the kitchen. She didn’t remember picking her pathetic self up from the floor or grabbing her purse. There was no recollection of pulling Adam’s gun out and aiming it straight at Michael when he appeared in the doorway armed with the leg of a chair, ready to beat her down once more. But the crack of the gun that deafened her ears would play as a soundtrack to her nightmares for years to come. The thump of his body dropping to the carpeted floor, and the acrid smell of gun powder brought Myra back to the present and it only took seconds for her to realize what she’d done.

She had to get out of there. Grabbing up her things and the satchel of heroin she’d spotted on her way out, the brunette took off running until her bare feet couldn’t take the pound of the pavement any longer. Ducking into a gas station bathroom that, thankfully, was unlocked, she took the time to scrub the blood from her face and don the clothes she’d managed to snatch up. What she’d left at her father’s would have to stay there. She couldn’t walk into the house with a busted face and a recently fired gun. She knew where she was going to go, but getting there was going to be a bit of a problem. There was the stack of money she’d snatched from her father’s desk earlier in the day that she could use, but how long would she be able to run before someone came after her?

It didn’t matter anymore. She’d left New Orleans as a criminal once, she could do it again. She only hoped that the trip to Boston wouldn’t be a waste of time.


End file.
